


Ten Cats

by AceofSpeight



Category: X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Cats, Charles Is a Darling, Erik is Crushing Harder than a 12-year Old Girl, Fluff, Lots of Cats, M/M, Neighbors, too many cats?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-08 04:25:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5483270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceofSpeight/pseuds/AceofSpeight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Erik is NOT the neighborhood cat lady.</p><p>(The one where Erik is the neighborhood cat lady.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ten Cats

**Author's Note:**

> Oh look, I finished something.

They just kept showing up.

First it was Charlie. A fat, old tabby cat with only an ear and a half. Erik hardly pitied him, he probably started the fight he'd lost half his ear; he was the meanest thing Erik had ever had the displeasure of meeting. 

One day he just showed up on Erik's porch. It was an early Monday morning—it would be a Monday, now wouldn't it?—acting as if Erik had moved into HIS place and was doing a horrible job on the upkeep.

Erik stared at him warily, and Charlie had stared back just as grievously. There was a distinct air of disdain coming from the cat Erik would have thought preposterous had he not been the center of that attention. He sipped his coffee, not breaking eye-contact with the scruffy thing whose excess fur and weight hung off the porch rail.

Erik, bored of the mammal and hardly one to waste time in a staring contact with a creature of lesser being (namely everything on the planet to be quite honest), looked away to glare at the neighborhood. He was in the damn suburbs of Upstate New York and it was like living in a comedy sitcom without the laugh track to cover up the overused jokes.

The cat hissed at Erik, clearly annoyed he was still in his view path without paying him proper respect. Erik hissed back. The cat was unimpressed.

The next morning the cat was back, in the same damn placed and looking even more chewed up than the day before. Erik rolled his eyes. The cat licked its nose and sneezed.

A month after the cat began showing up and exactly six weeks after Erik had moved in, he found himself unbothered by the cat's presence. It was just part of the landscape now: school down the street, Those God Awful Summers Boys across the street, the fire hydrant in front of the little red-head's yard, and now the mangled orange tabby that looked at Erik as though he were a spoiled fruitcake.

Seven weeks after Erik had moved in, some lox accidentally slipped from his bagel and landed onto the porch. Erik grunted and moved to pick it up when, faster than a damned I-Am-Not-Kidding-You cheetah the fatass cat leaped from its perch, snatched the lox and ran off, tail high and proud.

Erik rolled his eyes and went back inside.

The next day, there were You-Gotta-Be-Shitting-Me two more cats waiting for Erik on the porch. Erik put every shred of irritation into his eyes as he glared at the fat cat, still sitting on its same spot on the rail, as if it hadn't a clue as to what Erik was so upset about.

Erik stomped his feet and the cats scrambled away. Erik was hardly wearing workers boots, standing outside in his pajamas, robe and bare feet while clutching his coffee like a lifeline as he did every morning. The fat cat looked at Erik, blinked too slowly to _not_ be intentional and watched those God Awful Summers Boys come out of their house and run to school, already five minutes late as always.

But the next day all three cats were back, staring at Erik with dilated eyes as he bit into his bagel with lox and capers as though it were their last potential meal. Who knows, Erik thought as he finished the whole thing in three bites just to spite them, maybe to them it would be.

Eight weeks after Erik moved in those God Awful Summers Boys began heckling Erik. 

"Hey Cat Lady! Where's your CURLERS?" The older uglier one shouted.

"Yeah, and that white FACE STUFF!" The younger dumber one hollered, already laughing too hard at his stupid joke. Erik hated that one the most.

"Be quiet Scott, I think they're sweet--Hello, Mr Lehnsherr!" called the little red-head girl Erik steadfastly refused to find endearing.

"Ooh, you told me to be quiet, I'm telling your Mom!" The dumb one called to her teasingly.

"I can say 'be quiet' I just can't say 'shut up'!"

"YOU SAID 'SHUT UP' I'M TELLING YOUR MOOOOOOM!"

Erik sipped his coffee like it was an antidote for children. One of the cats below him whined.

Nine weeks after Erik moved into this hellish neighborhood with too many screaming children, Erik gave the cats his bagel. He wasn't hungry, making the damn thing on autopilot anyway. He made sure to give the two non-asshole cats a bit more than the asshole one though. Really, that cat was just a jerk.

Ten weeks after Erik moved in, he started actually naming them. As if his life wasn’t getting more pathetic by the day.

"Charlie," Erik said to the fat one as he chewed his breakfast, "because you must take survival of the fittest too fuckin' seriously." As if to prove his point, the cat hissed and batted his hand when Erik tried to hold up some of his bagel to him. It fell to the porch and the monstrous being that was technically a house cat dove to retrieve it, bounding out of sight.

"Medusa," he called the other one. "Because of That Time." The cat peered up at him with mock-innocent eyes and Erik frowned when he thought of the damned snake he'd been delivered and had to throw off his porch while it was still ALIVE. Cats were weird.

"Bucephalus," he named the third cat. "Because you're too fucking big to be a cat. You're a horse dammit." The fattest cat in the history of the world turned its head to meow an obnoxious curse at Erik before lying back down, probably out of breath just from that.

"You're Frank," he told the new cat that had shown up just yesterday. The cat meowed noiselessly. “What do you mean ‘why’? You're Frank, end of discussion."

The next month went like this: Erik showed up on his porch with three bagels—one for himself and two to tear up for the cats. The cats proceeded to try and kill him, Erik was convinced, because there was no other reason for a cat to try and run through your legs unless it was to trip and murder you so you’d drop the bagels for them that much faster.

He’d feed the cats, and if he had any bagel left over to spare he’d throw them at the Summers boys, who continued to harass him about his morning robe and lack of “face stuff,” which Erik could only assume the dumber one meant “cold cream,” from watching “Mrs. Doubtfire” one too many times.

Sometimes new cats showed up and others slipped away, trading spaces and taking turns, but always selfish and needy and grabby when Erik fed them. Afterwards it sounded like a stampede of mice, all cats lying around and purring in satisfaction of a good meal stolen from a Physically Rehabilitating Man’s kitchen. But it was a curse for them too because Erik was never gentle about it, throwing pieces away from his porch to get them away from him, and they were never happy for long, wanting the cream cheese off his knuckles, or smelling the lox from his fingers.

The only winner was the baker in town, who probably wondered what the miracle drug Erik took was to eat so many bagels and never get a belly from it.

Erik didn’t mind Kenya or Barney as much. They were quiet and never crowded Erik as they were fed. Patricia and Weiman though, now they were assholes. Almost as asshole as the asshole Charlie. They jumped into his lap when he read the paper, crumpling the sheets, and one time Weiman literally jumped on his face for no goddamn reason other than he’d probably gotten ahold of some catnip somewhere.

Still better than the time Bucephalus broke the sprinklers just by sitting on them though. Jesus.

By the time Erik found himself in this godforsaken land in Bumfuck, Upstate New York, for six months, he’d had at least nine cats making the rounds at his house every morning.

What a God.

Damn.

Joke.

But one morning, Erik went outside, carrying what was now five bagels in one hand and balancing his coffee precariously on the adjoining wrist, when he opened the door to find ten cats.

Ten cats, and one very good-looking man holding one of them.

“Hello,” said the Good-Looking Man, who was in fact so good-looking each word needed to be capitalized. “My name is Charles, and this is Cerebro,” he said, and Erik was sure there was a point about to come out of those gorgeous lips soon. “She’s a bit sick and I have no idea what’s wrong. The Summers boys—“ he adjusted the cat in his arms as it tried to break free to run around with the other monsters in the vicinity, “—told me you’re the expert so here I am.”

Those God Awful Summers Boys did something right for once. Even if they probably saw it as a horrible prank, Erik’s luck had finally changed for the better.

“So sorry to bother you at this time,” said the Good-Looking Man.

“Come in,” Erik said, backing into his house again and bringing the bagels and coffee with him. The cats yowled at seeing their breakfast taken away. Before they could rush inside, Erik placed all the bagels—including his own, goddamn that’s how desperate he was, but it’d been at _least_ a year and maybe, _just maybe_ this guy swung for the rafters—outside and slammed the door behind the newcomers.

“I’m Charles, by the way,” said the Good-Looking…Charles. “It’s lovely to meet you, although I do apologize for its reason.” He gave a humble smile and, once more, he adjusted the cat to sit higher on his chest as it struggled to break free.

“Don’t worry about it, you’re new?” Ever the charmer, he thought to himself wryly. Erik bit back his own self-admonishment.

“Yes, I’ve just moved in next to little Jean down the way. Such wonderful children this neighborhood has.”

Erik made a non-committal grunt as he lead Charles through to the kitchen.

“Have a seat, I’ll get you some coffee.”

Charles sat down slowly. “Oh…I’d like that, thank you.”

“Tea, then?” Erik asked, turning his head away from the cupboard to see Charles looking at him with a note of surprise in what had to be the most beautiful set of blue eyes he’d ever seen. Fuck.

If Erik shut the cabinet door a little too hard he really couldn’t be faulted.

“How did you know?” Charles asked, petting his cat whose mood had flipped 180 and was now practically drooling in his lap. What Erik wouldn’t give to be that fucking cat right now.

“People who drink coffee don’t like it, they need it. Your lack of desperation signaled as much.” Erik opened another cabinet and searched around. “I’m sure I got some around here.” He took out a small box of chamomile that was probably older than he was. “This okay?” He showed it to Charles.

“That’s quite lovely, thank you.”

“Not from around here.” Despite being a damn fine investigative detective from the five boroughs, Erik had a fantastic habit of making his questions sound like statements.

“What gave me away?” Charles was probably grinning if Erik turned to look from preparing his tea. His accent was light and airy like the website pictures of a Caribbean hotel. Too good to be true. “I’m from England, yes, I’m here in sabbatical for at least a year.”

“Studies?”

“Biology with an emphasis on genetic mutation,” he responded.

“That’s a mouthful.” Charles laughed and Erik set down his guest’s tea and his own now-stale coffee on the table. He sat across from Charles and tried not to stare too hard. He wasn’t succeeding. 

“So. The cat. What’s wrong.”

Charles looked momentarily perplexed as though he’d forgotten about the purring furball he held in his arms. “Oh, yes. Well I do apologize for stating this at the table, but she’s been vomiting and won’t eat very much. She can’t seem to urinate very often, but she’s still very young and I have no idea, I mean, how often do cats urinate anyway?”

“Hmm, any unusual licking?”

Charles looked thoughtful as he gazed down at the cat he caressed gently with his soft academic hands. Erik probably shouldn’t be turned on by that but hey, he’s seen weirder kinks.

“Well there’s licking around her female parts, but don’t cats do that?”

“She probably has a urinary tract infection. I’d change her food. Is it dry?”

“Um, yes it is—“

“That’s the problem. Wet it a bit with hot water or feed her something out of a can.” Erik took a healthy drink of his coffee and then nodded to the cat. “Should be fine after that. If not, there’s a good vet in town. Overpriced as hell but I guess there’s no negotiating these things.”

Erik was positive he’d never spoken so much in the entire six months he’d been here.

“Oh I’m sure that’s it, she avoids it like the plague, I should’ve realized—“ Charles smiled a smile Colgate would contract immediately and scratched under the cat’s chin. “You’ve been so helpful, Mr…?”

“Call me Erik,” Erik said and tried not to blush. Blush. Double Fuck.

“Erik, lovely name. How many cats do you own? I believe I counted around eight?”

Erik choked on his coffee and was only grateful it didn’t spill down his front.

“Those,” Erik tried to say gently, but in a firm I Am Not A Crazy Cat Neighbor manner, “aren’t my cats.”

“Really? None of them?”

“No.”

“But…have you had cats before?”

“No.”

“Then…how…?”

Erik snorted into his mug, “Beats the hell out of me.”

Charles looked at him, wide-eyed and handsome—and damn if Erik didn’t want to scrape his teeth along that neck—with a bit of a bemused expression. “Well. You certainly have a way with them.”

Erik frowned as he heard two of the cats outside yowl at each other for no other goddamn reason than to piss him off.

“I…suppose I should get—“

“You uh,” Erik was grasping at straws here but he wasn’t about to let the hottest thing he’d seen in months just leave, not if he could help it, “You like…science.” 

Erik hid his face by chugging his coffee as if it were ale and he were in a medieval tavern.

But Charles just beamed, and Erik thought he’d never seen the sun as bright.

Five teabags and another pot of coffee later, Charles is still sitting across from him, relaxed and smiling as he absentmindedly stroked his cat’s belly as she laid in the sun soaked spot on the kitchen table bench.

“He couldn’t have been that tall,” Charles insisted.

“You’re right, he was _taller_.” Charles laughed and Erik grabbed his hand from around his tea mug. “Your hand? The size of his _nose_.” Charles broke into laughter again and Erik even felt the corners of his own bleak mouth struggling to stay into a flat line.

“My lord no wonder you’ve got a full year’s compensation,” Charles said.

Erik rolled his eyes and made a noncommittal grunt. “I should be back out there, not in these,” he waved his hand and then dropped it back on the table with a “thump,” but looked up to Charles slightly chagrined before saying vaguely, “parts.”

“I understand a Brooklyn detective might have a hard time adjusting to the calm of the suburbs.”

Erik scoffed. That’s putting it lightly.

“But I’m sure when you’ve found some proper company you’ll come to love it.”

“What, you’re not proper company?” Erik said without thinking.

Charles’ eyebrows made a subtle jump upward and Erik could hardly believe it. He just flirted.

And Charles wasn’t running away.

“Maybe I’m not.” Charles sipped his tea. Now _that __eye contact wasn't "straight" eye contact._

“The biology professor who isn’t exactly who he’s made to be,” Erik grinned mischievously. He could feel his mouth breaking into the signature shark grin he used in all his interrogations, but there’s no stopping him now.

Cat got the cream.

“I hope you won’t think ill of me, Officer.” Charles’ eyes went half-lidded and Erik just got an instant hard-on.

“How uh, ‘non-proper’ can you get, Professor?” Erik slid the mug away from the table, opening up the space between them.

“About as improper as your vocabulary, Officer,” Charles placed his tea mug to his right. Erik just got Grammar Nazi-ed and he’s _turned on_ by it.

“Easy, Professor,” Erik’s voice dropped to a low tenor and honestly, it’s 11 in the morning and he’s about to _get_ some. “Or I’ll have to arrest you for harassing an officer of the law.”

“Do I get jail time for that?”

“I’ll handle it with a small fine if you cooperate.”

Charles gave him a look that could set bacon instantly to simmer. “Why don’t you handle something else?”

For five heated seconds Erik and Charles stared at each other. Between them they’ve each had about 500 milligrams worth of caffeine, there are nine cats loping around the kitchen door hoping for more bagels, Erik is still in his robe and he’s sharing a Look with the sexiest man Erik can officially recall. 

They stood at the same time, never taking their eyes away from the other.

“You’ve got lube?” Charles asked conspiratorially. Erik was already a step ahead.

“I’ve got everything,” he assured.

“Then what are we waiting for,” Charles said and Erik lead him up to the bedroom, as spry as a 16-year-old on prom night.

If feeding ten cats is what it takes to keep Charles around for the next several months—he thought has he pressed his lips to Charles, who let out a soft moan while unbuttoning Erik’s pajamas—then he’ll be sure to keep the baker on speed dial.

END.


End file.
